Fitz on the stalagmite in the cave. Fitz’s chest burst open, ribs broken and spread—I tuck my head into Sel’s shoulder.

I feel Sel’s silent intake of breath beneath me and open my eyes just in time to see Isaac Sorenson standing in the blasted-open doorway, completely unscathed. Isaac’s eyes blaze a fiery red. The mage flame wrapping his arms is silver, feeding twin clouds of smoke around his fists. His mouth opens in a silent snarl as he surveys the broken Merlins outside.

He looks nothing like the refined Master Merlin I last saw in a tuxedo in a country club.

One of the less injured Merlins throws herself in Isaac’s path, hands spread wide. I recognize her as Olsen, the guard that escorted William to the Lodge that first night. Silver aether gathers in Olsen’s palms as she prepares to fight the Kingsmage.

It’s nothing against Isaac’s fury: the Kingsmage bares his teeth, and mage flame from his hands flows in a thick rush toward Olsen, looping around and around her chest until it solidifies into a construct—a glowing band. Isaac holds one hand out, pulling his fingers in slowly. The Merlin scrabbles at her ribs with bloody hands, dropping to her knees once more.

Isaac’s fingers pull in tight. He is choking the life out of Olsen, and enjoying it.

I’m shaking again. Olsen gurgles, a rattling sound emerging from her mouth—and then it’s Fitz all over again. The imp with its claws in his back, his last screams when he realized what was happening. Sel’s hands smooth up and down my legs in a steady rhythm.

But there is no soothing this. We’re watching a woman get murdered and doing nothing. We’re witnesses.

A car door opens to our left. Slams shut. Then, another. The trees block our line of sight. Neither of us dares to move.

Isaac releases an unconscious Olsen—she tips forward. A dull thud as her face and head smack against the pavement. Isaac doesn’t seem to notice or care. His eyes are only for the new arrivals. “Bore da, old friend.”

From behind a wide trunk, a tall figure in a long coat emerges. Sel’s fingers dig impossibly tighter, and I return the favor with fingers like claws in his shirt.

Oh no.

It’s Erebus Varelian.

And beside him stands Max Zhao, his second-in-command and agent of my torture at the hands of the Regents. I fight to keep my breaths quiet, but my heart is a freight train in my chest.

Erebus pauses, surveying the carnage in the driveway. “I would not call the morning ‘good,’ Isaac, when you have used it to wound four of my guards.”

Isaac offers a lazy shrug. “It could be worse. I killed two others. At least these four will heal.”